


Equal Prisoner

by Drakochan



Category: Exalted, Exalted: Rise of the Scarlet Throne
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:15:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakochan/pseuds/Drakochan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mnemon Sextes Jylar's attempt at a coup in Emperor Parsalin Lysander's absence from the Imperial City has failed and he awaits trial as a political prisoner. The last thing he expects is a personal visit from the Emperor he attempted to usurp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equal Prisoner

For one brief, mad moment, the words lingered in his thoughts, his hand resting on the latch of the door. His guards stood at attention on either side, another two tailing him that would join those already at the door, should anything sound amiss within the room. It was a gentle jailing, as was customary in the Imperial City, with such high-profile prisoners as Mnemon Sextes Jylar. His sister had refused to disown him, despite the shame he insisted he'd piled onto the family.

A deep breath was the only armor Lysander took into the room with him, face weary when he caught his reflection in a looking glass above a fireplace across the room. There were streaks of silver at his temples that had not been there even five years ago. Power aged a man quickly. So it was with him, and so it was with the tired-looking youth sitting at the table. He sat stiffly, not rising to greet the Emperor.

Lysander didn't hold it against him. Instead, the words rang through his mind again. _Do you want it back? The throne?_ Inwardly, he scoffed, though nothing showed on his face besides the resignation, the concession that he was more than likely going to have to execute another Mnemon for treason. It seemed a family trait…

"Good afternoon, Sextes Jylar." Full, formal, given name, without the surname. The omission was noted with a sharp look, a moment of vulnerability in his face that only made the dark circles beneath his eyes give him a haggard look, the look of a survivor of a terrible tragedy.

"So she did it, after all… Please, have a seat," the young man murmured, all manners even in the face of the man he hated.

"Did what?" Lysander seated himself across the small table, a teapot steaming on a tray, two cups waiting to be filled, and a small plate of pastries to accompany them.

"Disowned me. It… is the best choice. Cut off the diseased limbs before they infect the rest of the tree." Long, pale fingers wrapped around the handle of the teapot, pouring a nutty-smelling green tea into his own cup, leaving Lysander to pour his own. He did so, and let the silence linger.

"No, though I advised her to do so. And it sounds as though you have as well." _It would be so much easier, without a name. Trust me. Family loyalties, they drag you down, bog you into agreements you never wanted to make, but are forced to. All for the sake of blood._ "You remain a Mnemon yet."

"I see…" Jylar's eyes narrowed as he sipped his tea, attempting to examine Lysander's face, from the look in his eyes.

"Your sister and some other representatives have traveled to the Heptagram to gather character witnesses for your case." By now, the boy had forgotten the Sidereal councilman Xyashin, was under the impression that a man had suggested the idea, and he'd taken it from that point. They'd all been fools, but this boy was the poorest of all the fools that had bought into Xyashin's deception… Well, except for perhaps his student. That lovely girl with the long hair. Lysander found himself, as with any Sidereal he did not interact with regularly, unable to remember details about her. He had heard the story secondhand from another Sidereal. Not Finn, he was busy picking up the pieces the rogue Sidereal had left in his wake… A woman that was standing in for him on the council.

"You have already condemned me to die," Jylar spat, though he hid his hostility well. A true diplomat, trained by the best. "Why give me this false hope?"

"I have done no such thing," Lysander said, tone weary. "I tire of these games our families play."

"Your family? You speak as if you have a hold on the throne from some legitimate branch." Now that there was no political repercussions, the boy let loose, his expression as icy as the element he bore to his name, the selfsame element that Lysander controlled. Ice and lightning and air. The room gained a distinct chill, even with the essence suppressors that were clamped tightly around Jylar's wrists, disabling his ability to access his personal or peripheral Essence. He was, then, just as powerful as Lysander had heard.

"I am descended from the line of Tepet, even if we have cast off that name. My claim is as good as any of those other 'candidates' that appeared in my absence…" Lysander retorted, an argument he'd had to trot out so many times. "Regardless," he said quietly, temper evening again, "Action must be taken. If it were truly up to me…" A wry smile pulled at his lips, and he set the teacup down before him. "If it were truly up to me, I would say fuck it. The throne is yours. But I have a responsibility to these people, to this Realm. I can't merely walk away, in the wake of this chaos you left."

There was a crash, the teapot shattering against the floor, the cup in front of Jylar, and the pastries, scattered now across the rug that slowly soaked in the tea, darkening as the liquid seeped into the fabric.

"Do not toy with me!" Jylar shouted, and immediately two of the guards stood in the room, blades drawn and trained unflinchingly on Jylar. Lysander held up a hand, and they sheathed their blades, bowing deeply and leaving the room again. Lysander saw his breath cloud as he sighed, felt the tang of winter on his skin.

"I am being perfectly earnest. You had the gall to rise up and take the throne in my absence. No matter what outside help you may have had, sitting on the throne while it actively snaps and growls and threatens… Well, that takes a certain kind of man. I feel as though, perhaps, there is some chance you may yet be useful to me. I'm just not sure how yet. And I am not in the habit of ignoring my gut."

The speech, delivered calmly while Jylar stood on the other side of the table, breath harsh in anger. His fingers were clenched against his sides in fists, white-knuckled—or rather, more white-knuckled than his already pale skin allowed. He did not speak, but his eyes narrowed, and the muscles in his jaw worked as he clenched it. Lysander lifted his cup, sipping from it, and set it down again, calmly, the click of a china cup against the saucer the only sound in the room. "That being said, it is not up to me. It is out of my hands now. I will not suggest you be executed, but I cannot speak to the Magistrate's judgment."

"That is a surprise to me." Jylar's voice quavered, but he was clearly trying to compose himself, hands clasped behind his back, spine arrow-straight.

"What? That I don't want you to be executed?"

"You dispatched the rest of my family quickly enough."

"They conspired to make an attempt on my life. You sat in a chair. A chair that fights back, no less. I find myself impressed by your gall."

The incredulous look from the other Air aspect almost made Lysander laugh, but he wasn't sure that would be an appropriate reaction, so he cleared his throat and hid his slight smile behind a hand where he played at wiping his mouth.

Jylar's voice was cold when he spoke, truly embodying the icy part of their shared aspect. "You mock me."

"I assure you, I do not. I find your reactions worthy of a smile, is all."

Jylar's eyes narrowed, pale blue slits, apparently puzzling out this man that sat before him, not the Emperor that most expect, when it comes down to it. Lysander was no Dynast, would never be, and though he had learned to play the game, adapted to it, he would never quite have the natural coldblooded calculations that came so naturally to those that had lived here their whole lives. It took many of them quite some time to figure it out, those that actually did.

Lysander watched him pace, somewhat resembling a caged wild animal, but his gaze didn't meet Lysander's, not once. Jylar finally stopped, back to Lysander, facing the fireplace, where there was no flame. It was still warm enough that no such things were needed this far south, a far cry from Lysander's home in the Northern climes.

"So you keep me alive to await a trial I will surely lose?"

"You have so little faith in your sister being able to find anyone to testify on your behalf?"

"I… am not graced with the luxury of friendship."

"Luxury?" Lysander repeated curiously, but Jylar did not expound, turning to face him again.

"And it would serve none of the other families to leave me alive. A man that has sat the throne and ruled the city, albeit however short a time it was? Anyone with aims on the throne is a threat, and we both know how the Dynasts deal with threats." He leveled a cold gaze on Lysander's face, an ironic smile that matched his next words. "You of all people seem to have learned that swiftly. Dispatching of your rivals as you did."

"I killed an assassination plot and those that hatched it. It was no personal slight." Lysander didn't allow the boy's words to affect him, and he sighed eyeing his now cold tea. The trouble with such loaded conversations with their aspects, he supposed.

"You killed everyone over the age of fourteen in the entire Mnemon line."

"I ordered traitors' executions." They could argue this in circles for hours, so Lysander put an end to it. "I don't intend to order yours as well, so if you do think of any… friends that may want to put in a good word for you in your trial, I am happy to take those requests personally to the people in question. For now, I should be going. I'll have someone in to clean up this mess," he said, nodding towards the shattered teapot and the dark puddle of tea that had soaked into the rug as he rose from his seat, setting his own empty cup aside.

"I'll be sure to do that," Jylar snapped, and stalked across the room, back conspicuously towards Lysander.

The Emperor sighed, and turned, moving to leave the room himself. In time, perhaps.


End file.
